


Nest

by justalittlegreen



Category: MASH (TV)
Genre: 1950s, 1950s foster care, 1950s parenting, Childhood Trauma, Children are Cruel, Family, Food Issues, Foster Care, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Peggy POV, Spanking, a child's hand gets slapped, chosen family, forged family, parenting, period-appropriate discipline, postcanon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-18
Updated: 2019-10-16
Packaged: 2020-01-15 19:54:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18505948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justalittlegreen/pseuds/justalittlegreen
Summary: And he tells you about the orphans. About the scrawny, owl-eyed children living under the mercy of the Catholics; the baby left on a makeshift doorstep; the children who come, who beg, who disappear, who search the minefields for a promise of scrap.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Setting: SF, postcanon. Hawk lives in SF, visits with the Hunnicutts regularly. Does not have a romantic relationship with either of them but is still beloved family-not-friend, and uncle to Erin.

The boy clutches a suitcase that looks like it's made of cardboard and looks up at you with eyes you can't read. The social worker is talking to your husband, but you can't hear a word. 

There are so many ways for a world to change. A war begins, and you lose your husband for two years. You make love to him one lazy afternoon, and discover your capacity to grow in ways you never have. Your child starts to walk. Your husband comes home from war like a muddied river that's changed course.

And he tells you about the orphans. About the scrawny, owl-eyed children living under the mercy of the Catholics; the baby left on a makeshift doorstep; the children who come, who beg, who disappear, who search the minefields for a promise of scrap. 

"There must be children like that here," he says to you. You hear the urgency in his voice, like he's looking for something to spackle all the things the war broke. Like penance. Like repentance.

And then there are papers, a visit from a social worker who admires your husband, the surgeon, your house with its spare bed and garden. And you. She looks at you with a nod and tells you how you'll make a wonderful mother to a child who's never known one and your heart doubts its ability to hold another, to love a child whose heartbeat has never beat in sync with yours.

The child looks up at you and you kneel to welcome him. He can't be more than four, though the social worker says he's six, and just hasn't had enough to eat for most of his life. He shrinks back from you, looking like he wishes he could hide in someone's skirt. He settles for leaning hard against the doorjamb.

Your husband ushers the social worker out the door. The boy doesn't look at her, doesn't cling to whatever bit of familiarity she might have held. He looks at his shoes, arms still wrapped around the suitcase. 

The dog barks from where you've shut him in the kitchen, and the boy looks up. Your husband shuts the door as gently as he can, and also gets to his knees. "Hear that?" he says, cocking his head toward the kitchen. "That's Waggles. He lives here too, and he'll be a very good friend. Would you like to meet him?"

The boy doesn't answer. You think he maybe clutches his suitcase a little tighter, rings of white on his tiny knuckles.

"Well, how about we show you where you're going to sleep? Can I help you with your suitcase?" Your husband holds out a hand, and the boy gives him the same stare he's been giving you - not angry, not frightened. Just frozen. 

Your husband is not used to this. Children crawl all over him; they yield to his smile like it's made of candy. You can hear the subtle shift in his breathing, the hint of impatience, confusion. You touch his elbow, a warning.

"My name is Mrs. Hunnicutt," you say. "This is Dr. Hunnicutt. He's a doctor who fixes people when they get hurt. I am a mommy who takes care of our little girl. Her name is Erin. She likes grilled cheese. Do you like grilled cheese?"

It's tiny, but it's there - a nod. "Well," you say with a big smile. "I'm going to go make some grilled cheese right now. Why don't you come with me? I think Dr. Hunnicutt is going to go back to his office and do some work now."

"I'll see you in a little bit," your husband says. You both stand up; you start down the hall, willing yourself not to stop when you don't hear anything behind you. You're halfway down the hall when you hear the scampering of tiny feet coming for your heels.

He stares at the grilled cheese in front of him, which you ignore, tucking into your own. You're not hungry, but you've been down this road enough times, knowing little ones who won't eat unless there's a leader to follow. You convinced him to put his suitcase on the chair next to you, boosted him up to the table on your copy of the phone book.

By the time you're halfway finished, he takes a nibble. On your last bite, he reaches his third. You go to the basement stairs, your back to the table. 

"You just keep on that sandwich. I'm going to let Waggles up to get his lunch, ok?" You've imagined this part. Your husband told you that the dog would help. All kids love dogs. And Waggles may be a bit of a barking handful at first, but he's never been anything but gentle with the baby. 

The sound of the turning knob prompts the dog to scuffle and thump up the stairs. As you're about to open the door, you hear a small crash. Forgetting the door, you whirl around, take in the upended plate on the floor, now broken; the child, curled up on the chair, knees to his chest, hands pressed to his eyes. 

The dog breaks through the cracked-open door, makes a beeline for the plate before you can say a word, but as you're leaping to grab him, you notice: there's not a crumb left. As if it's been licked clean in the ten seconds you looked away.

You notice: the boy has not opened his eyes. He is not crying. He is not speaking. You wrestle the dog back to the basement by his collar, shut the door and lock it. Without thinking, you lift the boy into your arms, hands itching to soothe.

He falls against your shoulder. Not the way your daughter does, curled in the comfort of knowing she's found her soft place, her safe spot, her perfect home, but the way you do when you are simply too tired to hold yourself up any more.

Your daughter chooses this moment to wander into the kitchen, hair in seventeen directions, still groggy from the nap that seems to get shorter every day. She eyes the child in your arms with suspicion. 

"Go get Daddy, right now. He's in his office," you whisper in your tone that brooks no argument. She runs for the office on wide, sturdy legs. As you carry the child down the hall to the children's room, you feel a warm, wet trickle down your front. 

"Oh my," you say, for lack of a better script. "Seems like we should've showed you where the bathroom is before lunch, shouldn't we have?" You prattle as you switch directions, heading for the bathroom. Your husband meets you as you reach the door, takes in the scene in one practiced swoop. 

"Whoops!" he says cheerfully, taking the boneless child from your arms and setting him directly into the tub. "Let's get you cleaned up, little guy." He starts to untie the battered shoes, remove one wet sock, then another.

"I'm going to change," you say. You head for the door, wondering what the hell you've gotten you all into. Erin meets you at the door, glowering in a way that suggests an oncoming storm.

Behind you, the faucet turns on, and an earsplitting shriek fills the room. Erin races to your leg as you turn around to see the boy's face scrunched an angry red, tears leaking out the corners of his eyes as the tub begins to fill. His body is no longer boneless, but rigid and tense. 

What happens next could not even be called instinct.

Without quite realizing what you're doing, you bend down and strip Erin out of her dress. Within a few seconds, she's plunked into the tub next to the boy, looking quite stunned by the turn of events. Your husband looks at you in confusion. You grab the soap and start talking.

"I'm going to wash Erin now. You two might have better met playing in the yard, but things just happen like this sometimes, don't they. I'm going to put soap on my hands and start with her arms...." 

The screaming slows to a whimper. He still won't open his eyes. 

"...and while I wash her, Dr. Hunnicutt is going to wash you. And then everyone is going to be clean. So clean, right Erin?" You study him carefully as BJ begins to lather him up, gently following your lead. Erin eyes this stranger in the tub, who's just about her size. 

"Mommy, why am I having a bath?" 

"Well, it's just something we're doing right now. This is..." your voice trails off as you realize you still haven't learned the child's name.

"This is Peter," your husband cuts in smoothly. "This is Peter and he's going to live with us for a little bit. He's going to be your friend. Peter, this is Erin. She's our daughter."

Peter continues whimpering as BJ gently soaps him, then grabs the cup they use to rinse Erin's hair. He scoops it full of water and starts to raise it, but thinks the better of it.

"Here," he says, handing Peter the cup. "Do you want to pour it on your head yourself?" He motions to show him.

Peter holds the cup in both hands for a moment, and then reaches over and pours it over Erin's head. 

"Peter!" you exclaim.  
"Hey kid, that's not what I - " BJ begins.

But both of you are interrupted by the sound of Erin laughing. She grabs the cup and returns the favor, missing his head as he squirms out of the way. But he's smiling, too. She sloshes the rest of the cupful in his direction and then tosses it at him, scrambling to the other corner, expecting his next turn.

You turn to BJ with a smile that approaches relief. Within a moment, you're soaked, as Peter aims badly and Erin stands up in the tub and sloshes half the bath over the side.

BJ's eyes are twinkling as he starts to laugh. It is the most pure and whole sound he's made in over a year.


	2. Chapter 2

At first, the laughter is lovely. 

You're in the kitchen, cleaning up the lunch dishes, though these days, it's hardly a chore. Three weeks in, and the boy Peter still licks every crumb from the plates - not only his own. He'll wait until Erin abandons her place, crusts and cores still littering the plastic yellow dish, and eat them before you have a chance to grab it away.

The first week, you tried to feed him enough. He ate until he was sick. Your husband says it's normal. 

"The way the Koreans could eat our mess tent food made me sick and sad all at once," he explains. "Heaping piles of it. They could never get enough of that slop. I know it's because they were hungry, but...listen, Peg, we know what enough food is. He doesn't. You have to stop him, teach him that there will always be more later."

The first week, he didn't sleep. You would go into the children's room before you went to bed and find him staring at the ceiling, lying stock still under the covers. 

You went to the library, not sure what you were looking for. Found an account refugee camps after the war. Cried to yourself at the descriptions of desolate, numb children who didn't know how to play. Something catches your eye.

You went home armed with a plan. The sixth night, you put your daughter to bed, waited until she was sound asleep, then brought Peter to bed. You handed him an apple, cool and heavy, a shadow in the night lamp's glow.

"This is not for eating," you explained, your husband looking on, earnest and confused. "This is for remembering. If you ever worry that there won't be food in the morning, you can look at this and remember that we will always have food in the morning. Can you do that?"

The boy nodded shyly. A half hour later, you checked on him. Found him sound asleep, curled up with the apple in his arms. Your husband kissed you and told you what a wonder you are. 

It helped some. 

Now, the laughter comes closer, louder. It sounds like a game of chase, or tag - a neighborhood game. You're so lucky to live on a street with so many children close to your child's age. Your children's ages. 

You hear a familiar shriek - your daughter's voice, high and playful. "Come and get it!" she calls in a singsong. 

You look up to see Erin dangling a piece of stolen bologna in Peter's face, before snatching it away and tearing off for the next yard. Most of the gang stays with her laughing as they run, but Peter trails behind, the determination in his eyes almost terrifying.

The heat hits your face like a slap. The shame. You race out of the house and screech both their names like an enraged banshee. Erin turns on heel and comes, face terrified. Peter's face goes pale and blank, his expression unreadable.

The lunchmeat still dangles from Erin's fist, and without thinking, you reach out and slap her little hand. She drops the bologna and, for a moment, is too startled to cry. Peter dives for the ground and you catch him by both wrists. 

"Erin, go to your room and wait until your father gets home." It's the first time you've ever used those words with her. She runs, breaking into a sob as she reaches the kitchen. The boy struggles against your grip, still fixated on the mangled, dusty bologna at your feet. You promise him he can have some inside, coaxing him like you would the dog, all high and gentle. You give him a plate with five slices, and he wolfs them down, licking the grease from the plate as always.

You turn on the television - Peter can watch for hours, if you let him, even the commercials. You leave him and go to the bedroom.

Your daughter is facedown on her bed. The sight of her raises your ire again, the sound of her cruelty ringing in your ears, scalding. You want to slap her. Again.

You do not.

"Erin." Your voice is melted steel. "What you did was very, very naughty. You know better than to tease people like that."

She turns her head to the wall and says something so quietly you can hardly hear. "What did you say?"

"Why does he do it?"

"Why does he do what?"

She rolls over, and you see the salty streaks on her cheeks. "He acts like Waggles. He does tricks for treats."

Your stomach turns over. "Tricks?"

She nods.

You guess. "Like sit, stay, come?"

She nods again.

You put a hand to your mouth whether to stop a scream or from losing your lunch.

"You will never, EVER do that again. Do you understand me?"

She sticks a thumb in her mouth. She hasn't done that in a year. The gesture pulls you back, and suddenly she morphs from monster to baby again. Your baby. You sit on the floor next to her bed and put a hand on her messy curls. "You can't treat people like dogs, even if they play along," you try to explain. "Peter didn't come from a home like yours. He gets afraid that there won't be enough food. It's very cruel tease him with food like that."

"Why?"

You sigh. "Daddy will explain it when he comes home. Now you need to go say sorry to Peter."

"I don't want to."

"You'll do it or you'll earn a spanking." The edge comes back to your voice, the knife's edge of shame slapping a blush on your cheeks.

She gets up and goes. You follow. You watch her sit on the couch behind him and whisper, "Sorry Petey."

He doesn't turn around. On the tv, a man lights a Marlboro cigarette and squints into the sunset.


	3. Chapter 3

You ask Hawkeye to wait a few weeks before visiting, to give the little guy time to get used to his new surroundings. You think you are doing the right thing. Your husband agrees, though he goes out twice in the meantime to meet Hawkeye at a bar near the house. You have long admitted that Hawkeye is more than a friend and beloved uncle - he leeches the bitterness out of your husband when it builds, and sends him him in a good mood that lasts a good long while.

It shouldn't surprise you, what happens when he finally comes back over. But it does.

Peter follows Erin everywhere now, her looming shadow. When she hears Hawkeye's distinctive knock at the front door, she races through the house, Peter a pace behind. Hawkeye usually scoops her into the air, full of laughter and chatter. But today, you hear her throw the door open, and then - a moment of silence. And then, "Hawkeye?"

You come into the living room and catch sight of salt-and-pepper hair and a long back at the edge of the parlor window. Erin and Peter lean out the front door, looking left and right, and finally walking out to the stoop. A blur of shirtsheeves zooms past your window, followed soon by the clatter of four little feet. 

Hawkeye leads them around the entire house. You catch the game from the kitchen window - Hawkeye darts, hides behind bushes, corners, anything, then peeks out to find the kids before making his eyes go wide and terrified and running off again. This big stranger, scared of two children. Erin's giggling. Peter gives his version of a laugh, which is more of a shriek. But he's smiling. And finally, Hawkeye has looped the house twice, he looks behind him as he runs, lifting his knees to his chest, like some cartoon, and trips and falls over the garden hose. Peter and Erin descend, shrieking madly as Hawkeye cries, "Man down! Man down!"

He hugs each child to him, one in each arm, for a moment, before getting to his feet. You're about to call a hello to him when Peter looks up, face absolutely shining. 

"Man down?" he asks. You hold your breath. In all the days he's been with you, you've yet to see Peter start a game, or even invite someone to play. You wonder if Hawkeye knows this. You suspect by the quick, tender look that flashes over his face, that he has some idea. In a second, he's running again, this time pretending to fall on his own shoelaces. 

Erin tires of the game after three rounds and comes in, looking for cake and milk and some attention. You count Hawkeye running past the kitchen window four times, Peter on his heels.

When they finally come in, Hawkeye is carrying the little boy on his back. He kisses your cheek, warm and sweaty from the yard. 

"Well," you say. "Look what the cat dragged in." You reach up, unsure. You want to ruffle the boy's hair, stroke his sweet cheek. You settle for squeezing his nose briefly. "Do the cat and his mouse want some cake?"

Of course they do.

By the time BJ gets home, Peter has a new nickname. Hawkeye - and soon everyone - will call him Mouse. Peter, for his part, bestows one right back - Erin's Uncle Hawkeye is his Mister Cat.


End file.
